Noble Savage
The young warrior hissed with discomfort as the effects of the Dreamleaf began to wear off and he began to feel the dull ache of the crude bone needle on his stomach and the burn of the ashen ink in his skin.
"Hurry up, would you?" he complained at Ash Tree, the shaman's apprentice. "I still need to trade in my spoils before the ceremony begins."
"Impatient already, Dog?" Ash Tree chided with a sneer. She never let the opportunity to insult him go. "I feel sorry for the poor girl that ends up with you."
"My name," the young man growled with an angry scowl. "Is Shepard."
Ash Tree leered at him.
She was Chief Williams's first of four daughters, and as such had not shamed her father enough for him to openly show his disdain for her. When she grown old enough to survive without her mother's care, she been given to the shamans to learn the subtle medicines of war. Her sisters had not been so fortunate, and for the terrible fault of not being born male had been left without a place in the tribe. Already some of the elder warriors eyed them hungrily, and as their father clearly didn't care for them it was unlikely they would ever have an honourable marriage. It would not be long before they were passed around like slaves.
Ash Tree was tall for her age, and her long hours in study with the elder shaman meant that she possessed skin fairer than most women could ever hope for. That, paired with her short, dark hair and the almost perpetual smell of sweet and bitter herbs made her a bit more exotic than most women Shepard had encountered.
Shepard had once harboured a childish affection for her, but had abandoned it long ago upon realizing how much she loathed him. It wasn't hard to imagine why: he, the fatherless son of a slave, was afforded more respect than she and her sisters combined.
"I prefer Dog," she said, ignoring him. She continued in her work, jabbing the inked bone needle deep into his skin. "You know, if you'd been born a girl your name would be much truer," she leaned in close so that only he would hear her. "You'd be our little bitch."
She jabbed the needle deep suddenly, and before he could stop himself Shepard yelped in surprise and pain.
"Hah! Like a dog and a little girl!" Ash Tree laughed at his expense. "I wonder why father believes that you deserve the mark of a warrior?"
Shepard growled, and through his drugged mind the sudden impulse to whip a fist into the girl's face became reality. Ash Tree was thrown aside by the force of the blow. In the light of the evening's bonfire, the tooth and splash of blood that went flying out of her mouth almost went unnoticed. But even with the thundering drums, the frenzied cries and songs and prayers, the high squeal of metal being sharpened and the distant roar of fire, somehow the elder shaman heard his apprentice cry out.
His head snapped up to Shepard in an instant, and the scowl that appeared on his face turned the young warrior's blood cold. He put down his bowl of paint and, not even bothering to wipe his hands from the sacred paints before seizing hold of Shepard's arm.
"Ingratitude," he said loudly, only just below shouting, in order to be heard above the din of the celebrations. "Do you not know the honour she does you, scum?"
"She was impudent!" Shepard protested.
"She is a holy woman," the shaman spat. "It is permitted!"
The words came flying out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
"She's a stupid whore!"
The elder shaman cried out with wordless fury, and for a moment Shepard stood paralysed.
"Scum!" he roared, and struck Shepard in the jaw so hard that the world went black and began to spin.
"You should have been a girl," Ash Tree muttered to him at his side, grinning through a mouthful of blood. "Bitch."
Shepard, already in enough trouble as it was and still reeling from the blow besides, declined to answer.
The young man was dragged through the war camp by the furious shaman, followed by the silently gloating Ash Tree closely. The press of painted warriors parted before them with wordless acknowledgement, each of them wearing a disapproving frown.
As they did, Shepard caught sight of the ghost dancers as they moved and leaped around the bonfire. The bone-white paint on their skin was cracked and flaking off with their sweat and the heat of the fire, but they still moved in time to the thunder of the drums. They would continue to do so until they collapsed or until the sun rose in the morning. They had drunk heavily, and then been drugged so much that their body was no longer their own, but inhabited by the souls of the glorious dead. It was they who danced around the bonfires, reminding everyone who saw them what great warriors they had been in life.
(A secret, treacherous part of Shepard's mind had on more than one occasion wondered why the dead would come back and dance of all things. There were quite a few things Shepard imagined he would want to do after he died, but dancing was not among them.)
Somewhere else, he knew, there would be blood dancers. It was forbidden for someone without the marks of a warrior to see them, but there were always whispers about the holy dancers. They would still be clean at this stage of the celebrations, but soon they would have a fresh coat of red after dancing with the captured warriors of the tribe they had crushed earlier that day. And when there was no more blood to shed, no more warriors to butcher in the name of the Blood God, then He would appear.
If Shepard was lucky, he would still be permitted to stand before Him. If he wasn't, it was likely he would end up seeing the blood dancers a bit sooner than anticipated.
Even the ghost dancers moved out of the elder shaman's path, though with a great deal more subtlety and grace than everyone else. (It was a celebration of war, after all. If there weren't any libations, there would soon have been need for a second celebration. And liquor.)
The young man didn't bother putting up a struggle as he was dragged through the camp, and it wasn't long before he was hauled before the chief on his knees.
Chief Williams sat atop a throne of animal bones, ancient tires and rusted steel tethered together by sinews and made soft by leather hides and furs looted from the ruined tribal village. He was clad like the other warriors, with bones and feathers and leather and a few pieces of bright, gleaming steel. Beneath it was darkly tanned skin as tough as leather and the marks of a chief over the marks of a warrior
"Shaman Dinna," he greeted warmly, still happily inebriated with the celebrations.
"He struck my apprentice," the shaman informed the chief. "Your daughter."
Chief Williams gave no reaction to the reminder except a slight quirk at the corners of his mouth.
"Shepard," the older man's face was grave. "Does he speak the truth?"
"Yes," the young man admitted.
"..." the chief's silence loomed over him, and Shepard was terrified for a moment that he would be denied participation in the ceremony. "You partook in the raid, didn't you? How many did you kill?"
"Four, chief," he answered quickly. "Three men and a woman."
His role in the raid had been a minor one, as he was not yet a true warrior, but as the blood-craze of battle entered Shepard he had more than accounted for himself. The most young men like himself could hope for was a single kill, if that. The weaker tribes had already been crushed generations ago, either by the wasteland or by neighbouring tribes.
"With a gun?"
"No, chief," there hadn't been any left after the elder warriors had selected which they wanted. He'd had to make do with what had been left. "Spears and blade."
The answer was enough to sway chief Williams, who levelled the shaman a hard look. "Why is this warrior not properly marked?"
This seemed to take the elder shaman by surprise, so much so that he answered without thinking.
"He struck my apprentice before she could finish."
"Then the girl still has work to do," Chief Williams said with all the warmth of ice water. "The ceremony draws nigh, and all our young warriors must be ready."
Shepard almost sighed as relief flooded through him. He was still to be a warrior, it seemed.
"But chief-!"
"If my daughter cannot perform her duties, then she does not deserve the small respect her position merits!" the chief snapped, silencing the other man before he could protest. He then smiled, all teeth and no friendship in the gesture. "Or do you wish to tell the Blood God why we cannot obey him?"
"Father!" Ash Tree screamed, "You would side with that dog over me?!"
"The dog has teeth," Chief Williams dismissed. "But you? What use is the ash tree, save to make weapons?"
"Teeth? Teeth?!" Ash Tree hissed, and before Shepard could move the young woman brought her knee upwards. "What use are teeth? I would use my hands, if only you put a weapon in them!"
"Silence, girl!" it wasn't the chief that said this, but the shaman. The look of fury upon his weathered face was something to behold as it changed from anger to fear.
Chief Williams, however, had had enough. He rose from his throne, grim faced and angry.
"You wish to be a warrior, girl? Then so be it," he gave a curt nod at the head shaman. "Finish her work on the boy, then mark her as well. I want them both to stand before the Blood God. Put them in a place of honour."
"Chief, I- even the boy?"
"Even him," Chief Williams confirmed. "He killed four today, and gave teeth even to a woman. He will lead, or die gloriously. Both will please the Blood God, I think."
The shaman looked as if he wanted to protest, but he kept silent. There was little doubt in Shepard's mind what would happen should the elder man refuse the command. Ash Tree was lucky to have come away from her defiance alive: the head shaman would not be so fortunate.
"... It will be as you command, chief," he said, giving a stiff nod. He yanked Shepard to his feet by his hair. "Come along, boy. You have caused me enough trouble as it is."
Despite his discomfort, Shepard felt like singing. A place of honour for the Blood God? And he'd gotten away with hitting Ash Tree? The night couldn't have been better if the heavens opened up and rained women eager to please him.
Well, it might have been a little bit better.
But still. Pretty good.
Shepard was crouched down on his knees at the head of the gathering beside Ash Tree, watching the night skies for the moving star that was the Blood God's chariot. He tried to ignore the terrible stinging on his belly or the slight tickle as a thin trail of blood trickled from the freshly applied (and none too gently) markings.
The drums had long ago ceased as the war party gathered and the young warriors kneeled in the bloody mud in preparation for the Blood God's arrival. The elder warriors were waiting, tense and silent, as the night sky darkened and the quiet wail of the wind through skeletal tree boughs chased through the empty wasteland. They would watch on as Shepard, Ash Tree and the rest of the young warriors were judged by the Blood God.
The strongest, quickest and wiliest of them would be chosen to leave with the Blood God and fight amongst the stars, hunting and fighting and destroying as their God decreed. Holy soldiers in His wars.
There!
He pointed skywards as he sighted the red star moving slowly across the Milky Way. It inched its way across the night sky, slowly becoming brighter and bigger with each passing moment. It seemed to split as it fell, becoming many lights around a dark silhouette that hid the other stars.
Shepard had never seen anything like it before. Its shape was difficult to make out, but it almost looked like a huge and strange species of bird. It was made of smooth, segmented surfaces and a pair of wide, bulky wings. As it drew closer, he became aware of a distant keening whine and a dull roar that steadily became more loud. He watched, mouth open in amazement, as it changed from a thing of shadow and red light to a huge metal... thing, as large as a whole tribe's encampment, screaming with wind and fire.
It kicked up blasts of sand as it hovered just above the ground for a moment before dropping abruptly to the ground, resting on four narrow struts. As the roar of wind slowly faded, nobody said a word. The whole tribe as silent as the strange metal-bird-thing hissed, and a wide panel opened outwards and then downwards from where its breast or neck should have been. Light spilled forth from its insides, revealing a huge shadow – a silhouette – of a bulky figure. As the panel touched the ground, forming a ramp, it approached with slow, heavy footfalls. Leaving the light behind it, Shepard was able to see more than its outline.
He saw large, dull-red metal scales fitting into perfect assembly, and bright yellow eyes. A monstrous build: short but thick legs, heavy torso and powerful, three-fingered hands. The enormous hunch on its back, towering above its head.
The Blood God.
The head shaman passed before the tribe, boldly speaking to Him in hushed tones. The Blood God listened, but watched the assembled warriors unblinkingly. Shepard felt its gaze pass over him, and his stomach filled with icewater as it did. The pitiless yellow circles lingered for just a moment on him before passing to his side. To Ash Tree.
That seemed to surprise Him, for he spoke a single word that instantly silenced the shaman. He pointed to her and spoke again. Shepard listened, but he could make no sense of what was being said. It was nonsense to him, full of harsh and impossible sounds. But the head shaman simply nodded, and waved to once-apprentice.
"Ash Tree," he beckoned urgently. "Rise and present yourself."
The young woman obeyed without hesitation, and Shepard felt envy bubble up in him as she proudly
"Ash Tree of the Dust Walkers, Blood God," she not-quite shouted. "Once apprentice shaman, now a warrior by my father's decree!"
Shepard felt that she was embellishing the truth somewhat. 'Decree' was a powerful word to use, considering that Chief Williams had probably only done it to be rid of her.
The Blood God's feet were as thunder in the silence of the wasteland as He crossed the distance from His chariot to Ash Tree, who fearlessly stood up to him. He paced before her, right to left to right again, and inclined His head and spoke another alien word.
"Y, yes," the head shaman said, somewhat nervously. "She is female."
The Blood God nodded, and barked a command.
"Fortune is with you, apprentice," the head shaman said gravely. "You have been chosen."
"I am no longer your apprentice!" Ash Tree hissed pridefully.
"Yes. You are a warrior now. Much joy may it bring you."
If Blood God took note of their conversation, He did not show it. Instead, He approached Shepard. The yellow eyes, hollow like lightbulbs, stared at him. It spoke again, several words this time.
"Rise, boy," the head shaman translated. "Present yourself."
Shepard obeyed instantly, eager to please the Blood God. He snapped to his feet and puffed up his admittedly narrow chest.
"Shepard, Blood God," he barked. "Four lie dead by my hand for Your glory."
This apparently failed to impress the deity, as there came a sound like a snort followed by a harsh words from within the armour.
"What glory is there in their deaths?" the head shaman translated swiftly. "Any fool and kill four with a gun."
Shepard stiffened.
"By my hand, Blood God," he said, stressing the word. He pointed to his weapons, carefully arranged before him.
His spears, all five of them, were his greatest pride, having taken years to fully imagine and create. Their narrow shafts were of unusually wide rebar, strong enough to deflect a blow without breaking or bending but still light enough to heft with relative ease. Their butts were lashed with long cords made of animal tendons and decorated with colourful pebbles and all manner of feathers. The spearheads were simple flint constructions, painstakingly knapped to be as sharp as razor blades. They had served him well, both in his hunts and in the raid.
The sword, on the other hand, was ugly. It was ramshackle. It was garbage. It was to swords what Frankenstein's monster was Michelangelo's David. The blade was fashioned from a length of road-rails that had been flattened, folded lengthwise and sharpened into a crude, rusted edge. The thin, aging metal had not borne the years well, and a gentle curve had formed along its length where repeated blows and attempted straightening had taken their tolls.
The Blood God looked at the weapons and grunted appreciatively. His previous derision seemed to be absent as he spoke again.
"How many children, boy?" the head shaman asked on the Blood God's behalf.
Shepard didn't hesitate before answering.
"No child worth counting."
Which was true. He hadn't met any in the raid: he had followed the elder warriors, after all. Best to leave children to children.
The Blood God seemed satisfied with his answer, as He nodded and spoken a word.
"Congratulations, boy," the head shaman said. "You've been chosen as well."
The Blood God laughed. Words emerged from within His armour yet again, and Shepard wondered how he would be able to obey Him if he could not understand His commands.
"Just these two?" the head shaman seemed surprised.
The response was long, and full of derision. Shepard wondered how exactly he knew that, as so much of the Blood God's words were made up of sharp or harsh grunts, growls and hisses. There was nothing soft or friendly about it.
"So soon? We hoped to kill a sacrifice for-"
The Blood God barked a harsh command and an obvious invective at the man. Shepard didn't know what a "pyjak" was, but he didn't want to be one.
"Very well, as You command," Shaman Dinna said sombrely, unaffected by the Blood God's wrath. He gave Shepard and Ash Tree a scathing glower. "Only the two of you have been chosen. Gather yourselves, and follow Him."
Shepard was almost giddy with pride as he bent and gathered his weapons from the ground and quickly scampered to follow behind the Blood God's titanic form as he lumbered back to his chariot. Beside him, Ash Tree was almost skipping. Together, the three of them scaled the ramp to the Blood God's chariot and into the almost blinding light within.
It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the brightness, but when they did he almost wished they hadn't.
He saw others like him, bound at the neck with metal collars and chains. They were sitting, sullenly, in subdued groups of two or three. There was no mistaking what they were. After all, how many like them had his own tribe seized earlier that day?
Slaves. The Blood God hadn't come for warriors, but slaves.
In the moment it took for his confused brain to make sense of what had happened his weapons were snatched away from him by a snarling demon with a maw full of vicious fangs and held fast at the shoulder by the Blood God's powerful hand.
"I am no slave!" he shouted agrily.
Words, alien to his ears, were spoken in rapid succession as he struggled to free himself and... and fight! He twisted and struck out at the armoured Blood God, struggling to do what he could with what weapons remained to him. He caught a glance at Ash Tree, who was simply staring open-mouthed at the sad display of humanity before them.
Something behind him seized hold of his skull suddenly, and harshly pushed it to the side. Shepard felt more than heard a sound like gunshot and felt a sharp pain in his ear, and he cried out in sudden rage. With reckless abandon he wrenched himself free from the Blood God's grasp, tearing his own arm out of its socket to do so.
He cried out in a berserker rage even as he tore after the foul beast that had stolen his weapons from him. It hissed and snapped at him, but before it could raise his own weapons at him he was on it, his one good hand instantly going for its eyes.
Its angry hiss turned into an agonized wail as his thumb, fore- and middle-finger found their marks, blinding the beast as the force of his charge drove them deep into its diabolic skull. Shepard bulled it to the ground, stunning it further. Seizing his chance, Shepard tore a spear free and whipped around to face the Blood God.
There was no time to stand and properly leverage himself, nor was he entirely certain that he would be able to properly balance himself with only one arm, but Shepard took sight and launched the weapon at the deity all the same. He watched with grim satisfaction as it struck true, landing between the armoured segments of the Blood God's armour. Shepard knew from his experiences hunting mirelurks that there was little point in trying to puncture armour, but to instead find the places that needed to bend and move.
The Blood God grunted as the flint spearhead perforated the folds in his armour and snapped, lodging itself deep within His flesh.
"Stupid pyjak!" He roared, and with a flick of his hand Shepard felt his body fall backwards, as if the whole world had suddenly shifted and down was now suddenly a direction he had not expected.
His back struck something, and his head snapped backwards into it as well. His vision went black and he knew nothing for a moment, regaining his senses only as he felt hands drag him sharply to his feet. He found himself staring into the face of what seemed to be a hugely fat lizard.
"By your hand, you said," it spoke, and Shepard realized with some alarm that it was the Blood God. It was a beast as well? And then he realized with more surprise that he could understand it, which was a greater shock. "And now I believe it."
The beast that was the Blood God turned away from him with a sneer.
"Bind him to the others, and then feed Krishk to the Varren,"
"It receives no punishment?!" something, another of the little demons that Shepard had tried to kill, asked.
"For putting up a fight? No," the Blood God laughed. "But if he wants to fight, we'll give him plenty of chances. But no weapons for him: he can fight with his hands."
Laughter sounded out from all across the room by a menagerie of monsters. Metal encircled his neck, and he was dragged to the rest of his apparent comrades and bound to a length of chain. Too late did he rally his wits and try to struggle against his bondage. He reached out with a desperate hand to his captors just as they withdrew, snickering at his feeble attempts at freedom.
"Hsss, save strength, fight good," it jeered. "Maybe you not die!"
This seemed to amuse the demon immensely, because it took off with a cackle.
Shepard could only glare hatefully as he reluctantly settled himself and resolved himself
"Damn good fight you put up there, new guy," one of his fellow slaves whispered to him. "Did me good to see one of those Vorcha scum scream like that."
The young warrior turned away from trying to murder the beasts with nothing more than harsh looks to inspect the speaker instead.
He didn't look much older than Shepard, though he was much paler than he was. Nor did he wear the rough leathers and furs of a tribesman, but rather a loose ensemble of worn, colourful cloths. No scars, either. For a moment Shepard wondered what kind of tribe the other man belonged to before he realized the foolishness of it.
His counterpart seemed to know what he had just figured out, as he nodded and shrugged.
"Yeah, I'm a townie," he admitted with an easy grin. "Got drunk with a couple of friends, woke up here. Some friends, eh?"
Shepard thought back to shaman Dinna, and the way he had presided over his tribes offering. Could the old bastard have known?
"Yeah," Shepard said, somewhat uncertainly. "Some friends."
This was unexpected, it seemed.
"Holy shit, you tribals can talk," he laughed. "None of these guys have said a word since the chains went on them."
Shepard spared the others a glance, and saw the resentment and hatred in them. All too familiar, though he noted that none of them had any blood on their hands.
"They take slaves," he explained angrily, feeling stung himself. "They had not thought to become them."
"Huh," the city-dweller grunted. "Guess that makes sense."
The two sat in awkward silence for a moment, the unspoken question of whether Shepard was like the others looming over them. Thankfully, however, he was spared having to answer.
"Hey, it looks like you dislodged your shoulder there," the other young man asked. "Want me to put it back?"
Shepard looked at his limp arm, and just then realized that it really, really hurt. And with that, the flood gates seemed to open and his body began reporting all sorts of minor injuries it had taken in the brief scuffle. His back and head were particularly bad, having taken the brunt of the Blood God's fury.
"Yes. Please."
"Cool. I'll do it on the count of three. Oh, by the way, my name is-" without warning the young man popped Shepard's arm back in place. The sudden and surprising pain caused Shepard to cry out. "Sorry about that. I'm Kaidan. From Five Creeks."
"Still a little bitch," he heard Ash Tree whisper hollowly at his side. Shepard, no longer under the influence of the dream leaf and far too angry people other than her to pay her any mind.
"And I am Shepard, of the Dust Walker tribe."
"Glad to meet you, Shepard," Kaidan said with a smile.
Shepard smiled, and settled himself down. But he didn't for a moment calm down. Tribal warrior he might be, but within the confines of his mind there raged a theological and existential debate of sorts. Certainly as advanced as someone of his background and age could expect.
Everything was different was. It had to be: nobody ever came back from service with the Blood god. He was supposed to live eternally, in great cycle of fighting, victory and celebration.
But the Blood God was a lie.
That much had been proven easily enough. Whatever strange power it possessed, Shepard had wounded it. It therefor stood to reason that he probably wasn't destined for glory of any kind. And he very much doubted that as slaves they would have much reason to celebrate.
But war?
Shepard glowered over at the beasts that had had the audacity to trick him and his tribe. As his fists clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his skin, he promised himself that there would be a reckoning for the indignities that had been visited upon him.
If a god could be wounded, then it could also be killed.
Because war never changed.
AN: Hello again, everyone! Remember that one time, when I made a story that had a happy ending? Kinda?
That was nice, wasn't it?
Alas, that maxed out my "Good Guy Syroc"-quota for this quarter, so guess what?
Bad things need to start happening.
I do not own Mass Effect or Fallout. Because I wouldn't waste my time on fanfiction if I did. (Though upon rereading the story it seems like I should be saying that I don't own Conan the Barbarian rather than Fallout. That's what I get for wanting to focus on the fun parts, I suppose... and mainlining the Dark Horse comics. I don't own those either, btw.)
'Til next time, space cowboy!